


When I think about love, I don't think about candle-lights

by Leafling



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Boys Being Boys, Derogatory Language, M/M, Not Beta Read, Oedipal Issues, Rape Fantasy, Rape Roleplay, Rough Sex, Table Sex, The Author Regrets Nothing, Xenophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-15
Updated: 2016-06-15
Packaged: 2018-07-15 06:36:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7211882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leafling/pseuds/Leafling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Napoleon learns that Illya is not meant to be trifled with. <i>Or not. </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	When I think about love, I don't think about candle-lights

Napoleon expects to be torn to pieces for talking about Peril’s mom. He’s done his research, knows just how much of a hard-on the Russian’s got for deal ‘ol mom. Napoleon hears the alarm bells going off in his head as soon as the words spill from his mouth. He knows that he’s crossed _the_ line—not _a_ line, but _the fundamental_ line that should never be crossed—as he watches the Russian’s jaw tense, his hand starting to shake and tremble like Illya’s possessed.

He’s not wrong about his assumption of being torn—although, it’s not into pieces, but in _half_.

Illya is an unstoppable force when he’s mad—Napoleon isn’t an immovable object, however, because the Russian gets him on his stomach with little effort and a lot brute force. It’s hard to believe he’s human, really, the man is so incredibly strong.

His pants are around his ankles before Napoleon can process why he isn’t being choked to death or why Illya isn’t raining hammer fists all over his face. And, _oh,_ this is not where he expected things to go after their first meeting. Gripping the tablecloth for leverage, the American tries to push himself upright, only to be shoved down more forcibly by Illya’s hand on the back of neck. His underwear is snatched down next and Napoleon would be lying if he said he wasn’t at least a little bit concerned about the fact that he was about to be fucked.

Napoleon tries to squirm out of that iron hold on his neck, tries to buck Illya off, tries to do _anything,_ and is rewarded with dry fingers pushing inside of him. It stings like a bitch and he hisses and swears and fights all the more, all pretense of coolness and superiority dissolving as his baser instincts tell him to fight the painful intrusion.

Illya curses him in Russian, calling him all kinds of filth as he forces Napoleon’s body to open for him.

Napoleon curses him right back, twisting and grunting and trying to relax against the feeling of being split open. This ain’t exactly his first rodeo, not by a long-shot, but he’s never fucked or been fucked dry and he’s not particularly keen on scratching this experience off of his bucket list.  He doesn’t have much of a choice, it seems.

Illya finds his prostate and in spite of every proactive effort on Napoleon’s part not to react to the rush of sensations, the American can’t bite back a hiccuping moan. Suddenly, the Russian’s words are even more venomous, his fingers even rougher. Napoleon tries one more time to push him off, but Illya fingers press harder into his prostate and it’s like his energy is drained from him.

_Whore. Pig. Shameless. Filthy American._

Napoleon clenches his jaw to keep from gasping, fisting the tablecloth hard enough that his knuckles are starting to match it. His cock is confused beyond belief, throbbing like a new bruise as it leaks profusely against the edge of the table in spite of Napoleon’s circumstances. It seems like it’s taking forever for Illya to prepare him, like Napoleon’s going to come from being fingered, but then the Russian is pulling out and spitting on his palm.

Napoleon really braces himself then, ready for the splitting pain. For the second time, he’s not wrong. It hurts even more than the fingers, being speared apart like this. Any attempt to stay quiet is snatched cruelly from him, along with his voice, as Illya thrusts hard and carelessly inside of him.

Illya’s hand leaves his neck, both of them gasp onto Napoleon’s hips to better angle his assault. Napoleon doesn’t bother to try and sit up now. Choking against the tablecloth, he curls in even more on himself and tries to rut into the hard surface in front of him, hoping like hell that the friction on his dick will lessen the pain. Illya stops him, the fucker, reeling Napoleon’s hips back and fucking him hard.

Napoleon doesn’t know if it ever stops hurting, but he comes anyway. Illya plasters himself over Napoleon’s back and continues wrathfully pounding away. When the Russian comes, he goes boneless, crushing Napoleon now as he puts all his weight on him and the table.

When they finally can catch their breath, Illya is the first to stand; efficiently, he straightens his clothes out. Napoleon, meanwhile, stays leant across the table, counting backwards from one hundred as he tries to regain control over his legs. Feeling the Russian’s hands on his elbows, Napoleon noticeably relaxes, finally releasing the tablecloth as he lets Illya roll him over onto his back. “Told you you’d enjoy it,” the American says smugly, although he squirms uncomfortably on the table as he tries to find the best possible way to sit.

Illya looks disconcerted, “I’ve hurt you, Napoleon,” he says softly.

“What? No… Its fine, Peril,” Napoleon assures, pulling the blond down to kiss him, “I liked it.”

Illya mumbles to himself in Russian between kisses. _I will never understand you Americans…_

**Author's Note:**

> Everyone else in this fandom writes top-notch stories. And I'm just sitting here, in my dumpster, throwing trash at passerby's. 
> 
> Title from "Rough Sex," by Lords of Acid.


End file.
